


Your Tiny Hands

by okayylmaocomputer97



Category: Political RPF, Political RPF - US 21st c.
Genre: American Politics, Election 2016 - Freeform, One last election fic before its over, Politics, so I can say I wrote political fanfiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-08
Updated: 2016-11-08
Packaged: 2018-08-29 23:06:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 352
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8509078
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/okayylmaocomputer97/pseuds/okayylmaocomputer97
Summary: Rubio has a breakdown





	

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this WAY back in April after Marco dropped out of the race. I had it sitting on my Tumblr and I'm uploading it just now so I can say I wrote political fanfiction. This election was absolutely insane to witness, and I'm kinda glad I am not old enough to vote because I honestly don't like either Trump or Hillary. Oh well. Polls are gonna close in half an hour and then the real shitstorm will begin. God bless America.

Hands were everywhere whenever Marco closed his eyes. They were tiny, spray tanned so much they were a gross shade of orange, with disgustingly well kept nails. Night after night he woke up in cold sweat, mouth open in a silent scream as Trump’s laugh echoed in his eyes.

He needed to scream, but he didn’t want to wake his wife, Jeanette, so he quickly jumped out of bed and ran into the bedroom, where he pounded his fists on the sink countertop until his hands and knuckles were bruised and bleeding. 

“Trump!” He screeched as tears welled up in his eyes. “I hate you! You took my votes!” He clutched handfuls of his pair painfully tight and groaned in agony. 

He looked at the mirror, unable to recognize his own face. He was a failure. He couldn’t even win his home state. That Oompa Loompa just _had_ to take it. 

_“It wasn’t in God’s plan to have me as President of the United States…”_

_“NO!”_ He cried, slamming his fist into the mirror with a sick _crunch_ as glass and skin broke. Shards fell into the sink and he felt blood welling up from his cuts. The pain was dizzying. “I wanted Florida! I wanted to be President!” He punched the mirror again, letting out a whimper as the pain intensified. “FUCK YOU, TRUMP!” Tears dribbled down his cheeks and a crushing wave of sadness overcame him. “I’M VOTING FOR BERNIE!”

“Honey?!” It was Jeanette’s concerned voice. She knocked frantically at the door. “Marco, what’s going on?!”

“Don’t come in,” He mumbled, slumping down as exhaustion overcame him. “Leave me alone.”

“No! Unlock the door. What on Earth happened?!”

“Trump happened,” Marco sobbed, closing his eyes. His head became clouded, and everything felt _wrong_. The room was suddenly too bright, it felt too small, the pain in his hand from where the glass sliced into it throbbed painfully, and he felt so _sad_. His wife’s pleading and knocking faded away into a dull buzz and he closed his eyes, drifting off into his thoughts, images of hands flashing before his eyes.

  
  
  



End file.
